


Your thirty minutes are almost up

by bluebells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Masseur, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is a workaholic businessman. Adam is the part time masseur at the spa Gabriel forces Michael to go to for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your thirty minutes are almost up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nights_fang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nights_fang/gifts).



> NB: COB (Close of business), CFO (Chief Financial Officer). Also, change of tense in the second scene.

Adam sighed, glancing at the clock.

At this rate the session would be over before Adam had even convinced his latest client to lie down. The guy was hunched on the table’s edge, cell phone still glued to his ear, and they had already lost ten minutes.

“Sir?” Adam cleared his throat. He rounded the table, cautiously, easing into his client’s line of sight. The man blinked at him, startled, as though he’d forgotten Adam had been there and this retreat with its soft candles and aromatherapy was not his office.

Adam smiled, grasping for that grain of professionalism that had won him this job, and motioned with his hands to hang up the phone.

The guy stared back at him, brow creasing in the slightest frown, glazed with miscomprehension, but then Adam heard the urgent voice on the other end of the line and he understood this guy’s focus was still very far away. Adam hedged his luck and held out his hand for the phone. To his surprise, the man nodded, shoulders sagging as he huffed out a breath in response to whatever he was hearing on that line. Running a hand through his straight, black hair, it flicked back stubbornly to his eyes.

“Get it to Raphael’s desk by eleven. I want a brief by noon, do you understand? The tender’s due by COB, this company has worked too much overtime for the last two months to lose the bid to Lucifer; those numbers should have been finalised at the outset. Get Uriel involved, we’re not paying that CFO sky rates to play mini-golf in his office all day. Noon, Zachariah. Lunch meeting in my office.”

Punching the end of the call, the man gratefully dropped his phone into Adam’s outstretched palm before his head sunk to his hands with a groan.

“Long week?” Adam ventured, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

“Long year,” the man corrected. He looked back into Adam’s face, the stiff line melted from his shoulders, and he suddenly seemed years younger with the relax of his features, but simultaneously weary beyond his age. He couldn’t be _that_ much older than Adam, but here Adam was still in pre-med and this guy had obviously travelled a much faster path. The wary glance he spared for Adam was interesting. “So, how does this work?”

Never been to a spa before, huh? Adam managed to curb the wider edge of his smile, motioning with the surrendered phone as he set it aside on the counter.

“You lie down and you tell me where it hurts.”

“Can you massage the morons out of my team of analysts, Adam?”

Adam stopped with the tray of hot, steaming towels, but his client waved off his look of surprise.

“The girls at the front desk told me. I like knowing the name of anyone who’s about to put their hands on me. My business partner forced me to come here, but that sauna was… hey, and, sure, I’m meeting all sorts of strangers in nothing but a towel, but,” he looked about the low, intimate glow of the chamber, nodding slowly, “It’s what the locker room should have been. It’s not bad.”

Locker room jock? Considering the guy’s toned physique in spite of his apparent workaholic lifestyle (surgically attached to his _Blackberry_ ), Adam could see it.

“… And who am I returning this phone to?”

“Michael,” the man held out his hand and Adam automatically put a hot towel in his palm, stiffening once he realised his mistake too late, but the other guy actually laughed, sounding relieved, “My colleagues call me ‘Boss’. Call me ‘Michael’.”

… All right, then.

“Nice to meet you, Michael.” Adam shook his hand and the guy’s grip was firm, no surprises there. A guy like Michael probably didn’t hold on that extra beat longer by mistake, either. Glancing back at Michael’s face, there was only casual ease and the hint of a smile at the corner of his dark blue eyes; son of a bitch.

Took one to know one.

“So, no whales on today’s soundtrack?” Michael asked as he settled on his stomach, the immodest towel loosening over the small of his back.

Adam chuckled under his breath, slicking his hands up with the massage oil. He’d have to remind himself the objective was _not_ to make the guy break, but it was tempting.

“I could find you some whales.”

“I hate whale song.”

“Huh. Me, too.”

-*-

It takes ten minutes to get Michael to hang up his phone.

It takes another ten minutes for Michael to drop the ruse. Adam can tell he's the proud kind, determined not to make a sound when he learns the surprise of Adam's strength.

Adam finds his first weak spot along his spine: it's a common one and Michael shudders, a ripple of well defined muscle from his shoulders to waist under the push of Adam's elbow. The next time he does it, his touch is almost too slick, oil trickling into the dip of Michael's spine. Adam smirks at Michael's involuntary curl away before he sways back to Adam's hands, the breathy "ah, fuck" almost too faint to hear.

Adam kneads the bands of tension as far as they go, stroking from the tendons in Michael's neck to the small of his back and down the cord of his thighs. Michael breathes slowly, his skin gleaming in the golden light, and Adam wonders if Michael understands he isn't supposed to push up into Adam's hands. Adam isn't complaining.

By the twenty minute mark, it doesn't matter.

It's the simplest thing that undoes Michael. Facedown into that cushioned table, he groans with painful relief when Adam sinks oiled fingers into his hair, tugging a slow massage across his scalp. Michael raises his head with a bleary frown and he doesn't look surprised to see Adam already kneeling at eye level with a patient smirk.

"You have ten minutes left," Adam tells him.

Michael is a client. Michael is probably going to cost Adam his job. Michael is also really fucking hot.

Adam could always get another part-time gig.

The towel gets thrown somewhere in the corner. Michael drags Adam up onto the table and their mouths crash together as Michael wraps Adam around him, hands pushing under his shirt and below the more interesting territory of his waist. Adam laughs into the heat of his mouth and glides along Michael's skin. He did a good job. His hands slide everywhere and he likes touching Michael from this angle much better.

Michael isn't as amused. He growls frustration (Adam laughs, he probably shouldn't) and pushes the masseur on his back, weight on his hips, and locks them together with hands and thighs interweaving tight. The oil burns almost as much as the blunt stretch (for external use only, once upon a time), but Adam pushes back down, breaths short, and he keens when Michael takes hold of them while his other hand and hips thrust viciously in time. Within Adam and against him, Michael is slick, burning, and he smells like sandalwood.

The clock reads two minutes left.

Adam clambers for Michael's back and digs deep into the tight muscle beneath his shoulderblade. A shudder goes through Michael, hard and angry as though he's fighting it, Adam catches the sharp edge of his glare before Michael's head bows and he curses against Adam's neck, coming in streaks across his stomach. And with a whole minute to spare, Adam thinks, smugly, until Michael keeps him pinned on his back, spread wide, fingers thrusting hard and relentless, Adam's thighs tangled with his, and Adam has no idea what comes out of his mouth, but Michael's aim is pretty damn near perfect. It feels like Michael hooks into him and drags him over the edge from the inside, and it's blinding.

Once he stops shaking and the light fades from his vision, he looks up into Michael's indulgent smirk.

"What time do you finish work?" Michael asks.

"I think I just lost my job." Adam's hand goes to his throat in alarm at the hoarse note in his voice. Hoarse? These were not soundproof walls. He so just lost his job.

He exchanges a bewildered look with Michael, but it cracks at the shock mirrored in his face. They burst out laughing and Michael crumples over him.

"Come work for me." Michael kisses his shoulder and Adam snorts a laugh, pushing himself up to sit.

They were two minutes over, Becky would come knocking soon. He was surprised she wasn't already.

"No, thanks." As the live in masseur for a building of workaholics? Adam had other aspirations.

"Okay. Just dinner."

Adam looks up at his client skeptically.

"And then curtains?"

"Just dinner."

"... All right," Adam passes Michael one of the courtesy robes, as he pushes his own clothes back into creased order, "Dinner, but you're buying because I think I've just unemployed myself."

It was worth it.


End file.
